Animosity
by Lafayette1777
Summary: The 125th precinct once again has a kidnapping on their hands, and the investigation itself may put more in danger. Set sometime before the last episode, but after most of the rest of the season.
1. Bargain

_New York City_

_October 12th, 1973_

Detective Sam Tyler of the 125th precinct is running.

He seems to be doing a lot of that lately.

One person is following him. But the other man is older, not quite as fast. They need a car, though, their perp is heading for a parked motorcycle.

The perp turns a corner, and lets out a surprised cry. In the next second, Sam stops in time to see her smack the concrete sidewalk with her head. Chris snaps the cuffs on her wrists while Ray drags her to a standing position.

"Nice work." Gene says, from behind Sam.

Chris smiles as they herd the woman toward Ray's car. Her hair is in a long, brown braid, and the sidewalk has bestowed upon her cheek a red, oozing scrape. She is tired looking, but a deeper tired than just the run. She is wearing a leather jacket over a pair of god awful, loose, toothpaste colored pants. On her feet is a pair of generic white sneakers. Her face remains impassive, but her body language suggests indignation.

Sam, still breathing hard from his sprint, is not impressed.

m m m

Back in Lost and Found, they have her name.

Blythe Wyatt, age 25. No arrest record. There's a hit for two other Wyatt's, but its hard to tell if there's a relation.

She keeps her hands in her lap, looks at the table. No longer indignant, but more resigned. Blood from her cheek drips down onto her equally toothpaste colored shirt, just visible over the collar of her black coat.

The three detectives stare at her for a moment.

"Why'd you run?" Sam begins with.

"Cause I just saw my friend get kidnapped right in front of me." She says venomously.

"Why didn't you call the cops?" Chris puts in.

"Ever tried to find a pay phone when you're fearing for your god damn life?"

"You were worried the kidnapper was going to come after you?" Sam asks.

"Maybe."

"Look, sweetheart just tell us why you were in that alleyway in the first place." Ray, losing an patience he ever possessed, says with enough venom to match her own.

She ignores him, and looks at Chris, whose sitting on the edge of a shelf, with his arms crossed.

"Ya know," She smiles, with absolutely no friendliness. "Crossing your arms like that is a sign of insecurity."

"That's it," Ray slams her head against the metal table. "Ready to talk now?"

She brings her head up, revealing blood gushing from her nose.

"And its broken." Blythe mutters, gingerly prodding her now crooked nose.

Sam roles his eyes and gives Ray his best _you're a complete dumb-ass_ look.

Ray responds with a surly shrug, and turns to Chris. "Go find No-Nuts to bandage this dirty hippie up."

Chris has only just taken a few steps when she stops him. "Its okay, I'll take care of it. Contrary to popular belief-" She stops for a seething look at Ray- "I'm a nurse, with a degree and everything. Not a hippie, thank you. Just get me some ice and a rag."

Chris raises and eyebrow, but does what she says. Sam and Ray leave the room.

"She definitely knows something." Ray says.

"No shit." Sam retorts. "But breaking her nose is not helping."

Ray grunts, and follows Chris, carrying a bag of ice and a rag, back into Lost and Found.

"Thank you," She sighs, taking the towel and ice. She has her head leaned back in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but lets it return to the normal angle as she blankets her nose in ice on all sides.

As anesthetized as one can hope, she takes a second to brace herself, then, with a sickening crack that makes everyone in the room grit their teeth, she yanks the crooked bones back into place, letting out a cry of pain. She immediately holds the rag to the stream of new blood flowing out her nostrils.

It takes a while for the bleeding to subside. She sticks a shred of tissue paper up each nostril, and Chris softly hands her a bandaid to put over the bridge of her nose, which she seems to have gotten mostly straight. A ring of bruising is already forming around each eye. By the end, she has a stunned expression on her face, and a pool of blood on the table in front of her.

"Never got to do that on myself before." She says after a moment.

The three men in the room break out of their slightly disgusted, slightly intrigued stupors. Sam wipes down the table.

"So, you said the girl who got kidnapped, Tessa Powers, was your friend?" He breaks the silence.

"Hmmm," Blythe says after a moment. "Its about lunch time, and my nose hurts."

Ray gets the message and rolls his eyes. "There's a soup place down the street."

She smiles triumphantly. "That sounds lovely. I'm sure when you get back, I'll have some information." _And maybe less of a desire to report corrupt cops._

Ray walks out, and after a moment Chris follows, claiming to come back with coffee.

"That went well." She looks at Sam, hanging awkwardly in the corner. "What do you want to know?"

Sam raises his eyebrows, but recovers and takes a seat across from her.

"What did you see?" He asks simply.

"Tessa is a nurse also. I usually work the night shift, and pass her when she comes in for the morning shift. We don't know eachother that well." She took a breath.

"Last night she called my apartment. Asked me I could cover her shift for her. I said yes, cause that's what friends do, right? When someone asks you, you pretty much always say yes if they have to deal with something. I asked her if something was wrong, she said she was fine, but had to go the dentist or doctor-I can't remember which. But she sounded weird. I didn't press though. As I said before, we were friends, but didn't know each other that well.

"So I go do my shift at night and then take hers. I leave around noon to go home and get some rest. But as I'm walking toward my motorcycle in front of the hospital, Tessa comes out of nowhere, grabs me by the arm and pulls me a few streets down into an alleyway. I'm getting worried—the girl looks like shit. She's wearing at least three layers of clothing, and her face is bruised. Her hair is a mess and she doesn't wear the usual make up, in fact she's not wearing none at all. I've got the willies for my own safety, but I ask her whats wrong.

"She starts talking about a boyfriend. Says she's running away with him, and I have to tell her boss that she's quitting because I'm the closest friend she has at the hospital. I already kinda knew this, she was always shy. It was just happenstance that we talked once and hung out a little later on. But anyway, she says she's running away with this guy—Daniel something or another. I ask her whats wrong with her face, and she just brushes the question away and keeps on that I have to tell her superior. That she's not supposed to tell anyone, but she didn't want to just disappear without saying good bye.

"I manage to coax out of her where she's going. She's really afraid to tell me. Says she's not supposed to talk to anyone about it because Daniel whoever says they're making a clean break and leaving it all behind. She looks around the alleyway, real nervous. There ain't nobody there I can see, but just as she's about to tell me this figure comes running out of nowhere and clamps a dish towel over her mouth. I could smell the chloroform from where I was standing."

Chris comes in, balancing three cups of coffee. Seeing Blythe talking, he hands her one and retreats to one corner of the room. She nods at him and continues telling her story to Sam.

"I panic as he drags Tessa off. I'm not much of a fighter, but he pulls her straight into a waiting car anyway. So I run for my life, and then you guys show up, and I assume your with the guy who took Tessa, because I sure as hell didn't call the police and I couldn't figure out how you guys would've showed up so fast, even if I had called you."

"Somebody in the apartment building next to the alleyway heard a woman scream and saw you running. The person who called actually thought it was a mugging and you'd done it. We happened to be in the area when the call came in." Sam explained.

"Did you see what the man who grabbed Tessa looked like? Anything really unique?" Chris asks.

Blythe shrugs, and frowns. "I was kinda out of it by then. Just kind of feeling rather than seeing. Asshole was wearing a mask and all black anyway. Couldn't see a shred of skin, I don't think."

Sam nods, just as Ray arrives with a cup full of warm soup, which he hands to an eager Blythe. She removes her jacket to reveal green scrubs, and starts in on her soup.

"Ok, cupcake, start talking." Ray glares at her.

"I believe your associates got all that was necessary."

Ray gives Sam a questioning look.

"She was quite helpful." Sam says, not quite friendly.

"Right." Ray mutters, and then storms out.

"Chris," Sam says. "Would you please walk Ms. Wyatt back to her apartment?" He turns to Blythe. "Sorry for the...uh..."

"Nose? Yeah, whatever."

"We'll contact you if we have any more questions."

"Okay." She stands, grabs her jacket, and follows Chris outside.

**Author's Note: This is the first chapter of a story that won't be much longer like 5-7 chapters. Just something I thought of while watching Life on Mars again. Anyway, please review!**


	2. Speculation

_New York City_

_October 12__th__, 1973_

Blythe saunters through the crowded streets, leading Chris, whose a few steps behind her. He watches every passersby carefully, scanning each face. Every time a new case comes around, he always finds himself doing this. Looking for the scumbag wherever he goes. The odds are miniscule, of course, and even if he actually saw the guilty party, he wouldn't even know it at this point. But he can't help it. It's a compulsion of sorts. Just something he needs to do.

The sidewalk widens, and he manages to catch up with Blythe as they pass the street her hospital is on.

"Are you gonna go get your motorcycle?" He asks.

"Nah," She replies, looking straight ahead. "I'll be back there tonight. It's not too long of a walk."

Chris shrugs, and leaves his longer stride to keep up with her shorter, scurrying legs.

There's moment where she bites her lip self-consciously, and then looks at him.

"I'm sorry, about that arm-crossing comment earlier." She says. "It was stupid, I was just in a bad mood."

"Don't worry about it." he smiles. "Trust me, I've had worse comments directed at me in situations like that."

She gives a non committal grunt and the silence returns until they reach her apartment building.

"This is it," She mutters, pulling her keys from her jacket pocket. "Thanks for the escort."

"No problem," He catches her arm before she can enter the building. "If you hear anything else or need something." He hands her a phone number.

"Right." She replies, and is gone.

m m m

Back at the station, Chris and Ray are sent out to see if they can round up any more witnesses of the kidnapping.

They start in the alleyway, poking around the dumpster and old cardboard boxes. They don't find anything of interest. The kidnapper left nothing behind. Then they canvas the buildings on each side of the alley, knocking on doors to see if anyone saw anything out there windows. Most people aren't home though, and wouldn't have been home during the kidnapping, because it was in the middle of most people's work day.

Ray finds the person who called them though. A woman in her sixties whose retired and spends most of her day watching out the windows at other people. He shows her the badge and she lets him in.

"Did you find the girl?" She asks. "The one who ran away?"

"What's your name, ma'am?"

"Lana Eloise Parker. Did you find the girl who mugged that woman?"

"Yes, we did. Can you tell me what you saw?"

"Not a lot, but enough. I was looking at that front window, actually, when I heard a scream from the other side and when I looked out I saw a woman being dragged off, and another woman running away. Then I called the police."

Ray looks out the side window she had pointed out, moving back a lace curtain to do so. It is the third floor and a corner apartment, with a pretty good view of the mouth of the alleyway and part of the sidewalk.

"And you saw it to be a mugging?" He asks.

"I don't know what else it would be."

"It was a kidnapping, actually. The woman you saw running away was running for her life."

"Oh my," Lana gasps, hand over her mouth.

"Would you mind coming back to the station so we can take a statement?"

"I suppose I could." She says, taking her coat.

m m m

Chris is having considerably less luck.

He has taken the building opposite Ray's, and finds the first two floors completely empty. On the third floor, he finds a man in his early forties, drunk as a skunk and in boxers and wife beater. He didn't see anything.

The fourth floor is also empty, and in frustration Chris wanders to the window at the end of the hallway to look out on the fateful alleyway. In his left peripheral vision is a metal dumpster.

Forty-five seconds of staring out at the alleyway and it takes him half that time to register the twinkling to his left.

He meets Ray in front of the building he had just gone through with some old woman. Then he shrugs and leads them toward the dumpster in the alley. It doesn't take him long to locate what he had seen, but before picking it up he quickly pulls on a pair of leather gloves over his strangely long fingers.

"Look at that," Ray says, as Chris lifts the glass bottle of chloroform from the small space directly behind the dumpster.

"Do you think when we can get prints off it?" Chris asks.

"With luck," Ray replies. "Maybe we finally have the last name of our Daniel guy."

m m m

Sam Tyler was looking through one of the many file cabinets of the 125 when Annie appeared out of nowhere.

He had been looking through recent of arrests of anybody with the first or last name Daniel, but he isn't sure how far back to look, and the amount of hits is growing.

"I found something interesting." She says, holding four separate file folders. "In the last eight months, four nurses have been killed. All from different hospitals, and all unsolved because no one could find a motive. Each time, they'd go missing for a couple days, then turn up dead some place really populated. All the victims were reported to be private people, never talked about themselves much at work, with not many friends."

"So you're saying we might have a serial killer on our hands?" Sam feels a cold chill run down his spine, thinking of Maya's encounter in 2008.

"I think it's a strong possibility. Except now we have a motive."

"Abusive boyfriend."

"Abusive serial killer boyfriend who doesn't like nurses."

"Either way, Tessa is missing, which means it's only a matter of time before she turns up dead, if it's the same guy." Sam reasons

"Then we'd better hurry." Annie replies evenly.

m m m

Three detectives, a lieutenant, and a policewoman stood behind a fence of yellow tape on a crowded New York street.

A woman called Tessa Powers was sprawled on the sidewalk, dead.


	3. Inform

_New York City_

_October 13__th__, 1973_

They found Tessa's body early on the morning of the 13th. She was in the middle of a busy square full of businesses, having appeared there somewhere between three and four in the morning. No one saw who put her there, and the first witnesses to see her body on the sidewalk were drunk or high. It was several hours later that a sensible citizen called the police, and then a while before the detectives were out of bed and on the scene.

"We've got ID on her. It's Tessa." Ray announces, by the time Chris arrives, Sam just behind him. "She appears to have been beaten to death."

"Yeah?" Chris bends down next to her.

"Broken collar bone, cracked ribs, fractured skull, bruised organs, multiple lacerations. Actually, though, she was killed by slitting her throat."

There is a lot of blood. Chris reaches one gloved hand out to move away the loose scarf around her neck to reveal the source of most of the blood—a deep red cut on the front of her throat. It matched Annie's serial killer theory; all the other nurse victims in the last eight months had been killed by a slit throat after violent beating.

Tessa Powers had a soft face and pale eyes. Her hair was a light, almond brown, and would've fallen to her shoulders, should she have been standing. A white sheet now covers her face as they load her into an ambulance.

A crowd has gathered outside the police barrier. Ray wanders off to disperse it with his winning personality.

"I assume we didn't find anything from the killer?" Sam asks.

"Actually, we did." Ray is back, and like magic, the crowd of civilians is gone.

He holds up a note, written in conventional ransom note form, with each letter cut out of a magazine.

"This was safety pinned to her jacket." Ray explains.

Sam takes it from him, and Chris reads over his shoulder.

_I'll be back for the snitch._

It takes them both a minute to realize who the next victim will be.

m m m

Blythe Wyatt is awoken by the phone on her bedside table ringing obnoxiously.

She checks her watch, revealing it to be 9:30 in the morning, three and a half hours after her shift ended. She blinks her eyes a couple times against the morning light before picking up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Detective Sam Tyler, remember, from yesterday?"

"Yeah, I remember. What's going on?"

"Uh, we need you to come down here. It's about Tessa Powers."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Without saying good bye, she places the receiver back in its cradle and pulls herself from beneath the warm sheets.

In the bathroom, she simultaneously brushes her teeth and combs her hair before braiding it, as usual. She doesn't bother with make-up—she still has two black eyes and a band-aid over her nose. Then she pulls on a pair of jeans and the first shirt she finds in her closet before grabbing her purse and motorcycle helmet and galloping down the stairs. Outside, she pulls on her leather jacket.

She doesn't think about Tessa. They're either calling to tell her they found her alive, or they found her dead.

She slings a leg over the bike, pulls on the helmet, and turns onto the street, anticipating the violation of many traffic laws.

m m m

The 125 seems to be mostly empty at this time in the morning, with a few cops meandering around doing paperwork and sorting files. Detective Tyler meets her at the door, muttering something about a security badge.

"What?" She asks.

"Oh, uh, never mind." He says and leads her down several corridors, and into a high ceilinged room smelling of disinfectant. One window graces the space, lighting up the dark colored tile walls.

In the center of the room is a metal table, upon which rests a body covered by a white sheet. On the outskirts of the room is a man Blythe recognizes to be Detective Chris Skeltan, the one with the soft face. He looks up from a file marked _Powers, __Tessa_ when they enter.

"I'm sorry." Is all he says.

"The ID matches." Sam says. "We just wanted to make sure."

"Right." She replies, and steps forward to lift the sheet ever so slightly.

She thought she was prepared to see Tessa's face, but she quickly discovers she was wrong. She takes an involuntary step back, and sucks in a jarring, wavering breath.

"That's her." Blythe breathes, covering her mouth for an astonished moment. Her face is bruised and bloodied, yes, but thats not what disturbs her. She see dead bodies all the time. Its the fact that less than two days ago she had seen Tessa completely alive.

Chris appears at her side, lightly touches her arm. "If it makes you feel any better, she wasn't raped. And she didn't suffer much, except for the last few minutes of her life."

"That's good." She murmurs, sucking in another shaking breath and blinking rapidly.

"Here, come with me." Chris begins to lead her away. "There's a few more things we want to ask."

"Alright." She blows Tessa's body a kiss before departing.

"Did she have any family?" Chris sets a cup of coffee down in front of her, and takes a seat on the other side of his desk, which is piled on high with file folders and reports.

"Not in New York, I don't think." Blythe has pulled herself mostly together now, and is taking deep breath. She doesn't touch the coffee, not yet. "I think she said something about the midwest."

Chris nods, and makes a note. "And, uh, where were you last night, around two or three?"

She raises her eyebrows, but answers anyway. "At work. Plenty of others can vouch for that."

"Ok." He scribbles something else down, and she notices he's left handed. He pauses, then meets her eyes. "If there's anything else you can tell us, any other detail that might help us in finding out why this happened..."

"I can't." She says softly, almost guiltily at the fact that she can offer no more help.

"Nothing more."

"There's something else."

"Yeah?"

"The killer left a note."

"Which said...?"

" '_I'll be back for the snitch.' "_

Her eyes widen. "Does that...oh, shit."

"Now, don't worry, ok? We'll-" He was cut off as Sam taps him on the shoulder from behind. He nods in the direction of a table, housing Lieutenant Gene Hunt, Detective Ray Carling, and a few others Blythe didn't recognize.

"Oh, right." Chris beckons for her to follow him over to the table.

After seats are taken, the Lieutenant leans over the table and begins to speak. "We have the beginnings of what could become a very dangerous situation." He says. "Ms. Wyatt, I assume you are aware of the jeopardy you may be in."

m m m

For the second time in as many days, Chris finds himself walking Blythe Wyatt back to her apartment. Once again, she leads the way, while he follows at a more relaxed pace. He rolls his eyes as she jay walks across a busy avenue, but says nothing.

He'll be running security detail for the rest of the day on her, until the more permanent arrangement would take effect. To almost everyone's surprise, Ray had volunteered to house her in his spare bedroom, since his wife was home most of the day and could make sure that Blythe didn't disappear from under their noses.

There had been a stunned silence, and Chris saw a sly smile on Blythe's face.

"Oh, I get it." She had said. "You think you owe me. I'm flattered." She ever so subtly flicked the end of her nose, mostly covered with a band-aid. "Fair enough."

She'd stay with Ray for a week, giving the investigators some time to track down the killer. Chris would make sure she wasn't left alone for the next few hours.

Blythe's apartment is small, not more than 600 hundred square feet. It is clean though, and sunny.

"Something to drink?" She asks him.

"Nah, you don't have to host me, or anything. I'm just here to make sure you don't kidnapped."

She shrugs, and pours herself a full glass of whiskey. He looks at his watch. It's ten thirty in the morning. Upon voicing this observation, she narrows her eyes at him and raises an eyebrow.

"Aren't all cops alcoholics?" She asks, somewhat sarcastically.

"Not at my age." He replies. "Not quite yet."

"Well, I've had kind of a rough morning. I deserve a drink."

"Can't argue with that."

"Ok, well, make yourself at home." She says with a shrug. "I'm gonna try to get some sleep before I gotta leave here."

"Alright."

She goes into the room he assumes is the bedroom and shuts the door.

It's something like six hours later, and Chris has blown through three quarters of the textbooks he's reading on linguistics, when Blythe emerges from her cave again. Sleep mars (he wonders for a moment why that verb sounds resonant to him) her features, and she's putting her hair up in a quick bun. She wears a pair of cloth shorts and a tank top.

"Afternoon." She greets him, then crosses to the kitchen to make a sandwich. Halfway through it, her faces turns thoughtful, and she puts it down. "You wanna go out for lunch? There's a nice Greek place down the street."

Chris thinks for moment, wondering if he's even allowed to. Then he thinks about some of the things Ray and the Lieut of done, and decides the rules aren't exactly well defined. "Sure."


	4. Residence

_New York City_

_October 13__th__, 1973_

"Do you always braid you hair?" Chris asks her over a plate of lamb.

"For work, yeah." She replies. "It's functional. My hair's kinda curly and unruly, not helpful when you're trying to take care of people."

"Yeah, I used to do my sister's hair for her, and she always liked the braid." He replies.

"You have a little sister?"

"I have five younger sisters. I'm the oldest and the only boy."

"Oh."

She sets to work on her own food, eyeing him carefully. "You ever been shot?"

He raises his eyebrows. "You certainly get to the point."

"I think its a valid question, you being a cop and all. It's not like I'm asking a car repairman whether he's been shot or not."

"Not yet," He says after a moment. "But granted I've been a cop for three years, a detective for even less." He smiles, looking morose. "But I suppose it'll happen sometime, right? I mean, the Lieut's been shot five times, I think, Ray at least twice. Sam, just recently."

"Jesus."

He shrugs, then, almost as if he can see the future.

m m m

Blythe packs a mid sized suitcase, with toiletries, books, clean underwear, and her usual scrubs. She then throws out anything in the refrigerator that will spoil in the coming week, and takes the trash out. Then she closes the blinds, turns off all the lights, and, in the hallway, locks the door.

"Ready?" Chris asks her.

"Yep." She says stoically.

Chris takes a taxi to Ray's, with Blythe following on her motorcycle. She parks on the street while he pays the cab driver.

In the elevator, Blythe looks at him strangely.

"Lunch was nice," She says. "We should do it again sometime."

They reach the correct floor, and walk down the gray hallway.

"Yeah," He agrees. "We should."

At Ray's door, they knock. Blythe smiles a rare, genuine smile at him, which Chris returns easily.

A few seconds later, Denise Carling opens the door, grinning welcomingly.

m m m

Denise is pleasantly surprised.

She had been told by her husband that morning that they would have a woman staying with them who needed protection. She had not been hugely excited about this—some strange woman staying in their small apartment for god knew how long? It seemed like a recipe for stress.

But its turning out better than she could have hoped. Blythe is not mentally insane, or violent, or rude. She is private, staying in the guest room mostly, and coming out for meals or to check the news on TV. She goes to work at nine in the evening, giving Denise and Ray privacy at night, and then comes back at six in the morning, to sleep until the early afternoon while Ray goes to work and Denise does her usual housekeeping. Blythe is not much of a talker, but no one expects her to be, and when she does open her mouth she is friendly and helpful, to Denise, at least. She is less amiable to Ray, for reasons no one will explain. When asked why her nose is still broken, Blythe waves off the question with a laugh.

All in all, Denise and Blythe get along. But then again, Denise gets along with everybody.

m m m

"So, how did this happen?" Blythe asks.

"Oh, you know. At the shooting range with boys, things happen that aren't planned." The man, she thinks his name is Ralph, says.

She finishes cleaning the gunshot wound in his foot and begins to wrap it. Looking at the angle of the bullet, she resists the urge to say _"you shot yourself in the foot, didn't you?"_

"You're going to need surgery to extract the bullet." She tells him, finishing the bandage. "We'll come get you when we have a free surgeon. Shouldn't be too long. Until then, try not to stand on it."

"Ok," he replies.

Blythe washes her hands quickly and then takes her leave. It's 6:15 in the morning, and her shift is finished. Rubbing her tired eyes, she grabs her bag, jacket, and helmet before heading for the parking lot.

Her bike is waiting for her. It's a slightly longer drive to the Carling apartment, but not significantly so. She greets Denise, whose in the kitchen making breakfast, and nods at Ray, sitting at the table. She drops her things in her room, undresses, and then takes a scaldingly hot shower. Afterward, she redresses in sweatpants and a t-shirt.

In the other room, breakfast is ready, and Blythe takes a seat next to Ray. He may be a racist, sexist, jackass, but they had a similar doubtful world view that kept them from strangling eachother. Denise took the third seat, and smiled.

"Good shift?" She asks Blythe.

"Entertaining, at least."

Blythe, not for the first time, looks at them and thinks that they could easily be just the right age to be her parents. She herself hadn't seen her parents in years—they'd died when she was in her teens in an accident. It had effected her for a while, but she'd dealt with it. She had several heirlooms and things that were important them hidden away in a fire-retardant box in her apartment. But Denise and Ray reminds her of having older people take care of her. It is a nice feeling, despite the fact that she is there because a killer/kidnapper will most likely come after her.

Ray leaves for work a few minutes later, after kissing his wife and grabbing his coat. After helping clean the table, Blythe wanders off to fall into bed for the next eight hours. She wakes late in the afternoon, and does some reading until Denise calls dinner to be ready.

Chris is staying for dinner, which she remembers when she sees him sitting in the fourth seat at the table. They smile at each other upon sight. The smile doesn't leave as dinner continues.

It towards the end of the meal, when everyone's halfway through desert, that she finds the courage to ask.

"So," Blythe begins. "have you made any progress on the case?"

Chris and Ray exchange a look. "Not as much as we'd like to be." Ray says after a moment.

She raises an eyebrow. They look guilty, like they have already failed her in some way.

"We're going off that serial killer theory," Chris explains. "Trying to look into the other nurses that were killed. And hoping the prints off the chloroform bottle will come back. Other than that, we still don't know who we're looking for."

Denise must see Blythe's face fall, for she quickly changes the subject, and then employs the men in helping her clear the table. Blythe, feeling helpless, stays in her seat, wringing out the end of the table cloth with both hands repeatedly.

A hand resting gently on her shoulder brings her back from her stupor. She looks up at Chris's face.

"It's going to be okay." He tells her. "We're going to figure this out. I won't let anything bad happen to you."

She does her best to believe him.

Ray comes back to the table with a bottle of tequila, and everyone takes their seats again, except for Denise, who rolls her eyes and heads off to watch the evening news in the adjacent room.

Shots are poured, and Blythe finds herself slightly more relaxed. Maybe she gives Ray too little credit for his emotional IQ. Or maybe he just likes tequila.

They talked about movies for a while, and then sports, mostly boxing, which Blythe actually knew something about. At one point, Chris thinks of something he doesn't want to forget, and produces a pen to write it down on the back of his right hand.

Blythe makes a face. "Hold on, are you right handed or left handed?" In the few days she'd known him, she was almost certain she'd seen him write with both.

"Oh, both." He says. "I was right handed, and then I broke my right arm really bad in my teens and had to figure how to write with my other one. It just stuck, I guess, and now I don't have a preference."

They exchange a smile, and Blythe pushes a strand of hair away from her face. She catches a glance of her watch. "Shit!" She cries. "I have to go to work, like, now."

She gets to her feet quickly, too quickly, sways for a moment, then recovers, and without a backward glance sprints toward her room. She splashes water on her face in the bathroom, washes the taste and smell of booze from her mouth, then re braids her hair. She throws on her scrubs, shoves her feet in her sneakers, and dashes back out into the main space.

"Where's Chris?" She asks Ray, whose slumping in a chair at the kitchen table.

"He had to get home."

"Oh."

Ray smirks. "Don't worry, sweet cheeks, the boy can't cook for shit. He has to come over here at least once a week or he'll starve."

She smiles, then grabs her purse, helmet and jacket and runs for it.


	5. Definitive

_New York City_

_October 18__th__, 1973_

Ray Carling can always tell when his partner is in a good mood.

Chris, sitting at his desk across from Ray, is looking through a file, and humming to himself. It sounds like David Bowie. Ray thinks that significant in some way, but can't figure out why. After a while, he gives up, and tries to focus on his paperwork.

"Is there TV in Australia?" Chris asks, some time later, looking up at Ray.

"Uh, yes."

"Oh, good." Chris bends his head back down to read.

Ray thinks about asking, but then rolls his eyes and keeps writing. Sometimes he thinks that Chris is crazier than Sam Tyler, and that's saying something.

"Hey," Speak of the devil, Sam Tyler appears pulling on his trademark leather jacket. "Hunt says you guys need to go interview the brother of that nurse who got killed back in May."

"Right." Chris closes the file, and gets up. "You coming?"

"Nah, I gotta go take Blythe Wyatt back to her apartment. The Lieut says we can't hold on to her for too much longer, even if we're not making much progress. He'll put a car in front of her building until we crack this." Ray replies.

"Oh, ok." Chris says, and his face is unreadable.

m m m

Blythe returns to her apartment on Friday evening, with just enough time to drop her stuff and get changed for work. She only has one of her eyes lined and shadowed when the door bell rings.

Grumbling, she yanks the door open, to see Chris standing there.

"It seems that I am constantly in the presence of cops." She replies, leaving the door open and heading back toward her bathroom mirror.

"Do you always wear that much make-up for work?" He asks.

"Its in the job description." She says, expertly lining the other eye. "Nurses need to be cheerful, perfect, and willing not to ask why some guy has a wedding ring stuck on his penis."

Chris looks distressed. "Does that happen?"

"More often then I care to tell."

"Jesus Christ."

"Yeah." She finishes soon afterward, and leans down to tie her shoes. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I just wanted to tell you we have a car parked in front of your building, the black Ford." he informs.

"Ah, lovely." She stands at her full height. "Are you included in this car?"

"Tonight, yes." He pauses. "And I wanted to tell you we made a breakthrough."

She breaks into a rare, wide grin. "Yeah?"

"We were looking into the other murders in the last year, and decided to go back to the first one that we have documented, back in May. The only close relation we had to the victim—an introverted, female, nurse—was her brother. He didn't have much to say, but we did find that his best friend from college's name was Daniel Pierce."

"Daniel, you don't say."

"Exactly. We asked this guy—the brother—if he knew where Daniel was. He said they used to share an apartment, but he hadn't seen him since they downsized from the expensive rent."

"No current address?"

"None under his real name. He was smart enough to change his name once he started to killing nurses. But its something. And we'll have the prints from the chloroform bottle back soon, with luck." He smiles.

"Brilliant." Her face lights up, exposing slightly crooked teeth. She spares a look at her watch. "Look, I have to get going. Will I see you in the morning?"

"Sometime tomorrow, most likely."

"And Saturday is my night off."

"Alright."

Following her usual routine, she grabs her purse, helmet, and jacket, and heads off.

m m m

In an attempt to maintain some sort of regular sleep schedule, her Saturday night routine consisted of staying up the whole time. She pays bills, does housekeeping, and washes laundry at the 24-hour laundromat down the street. The neighbors are aware of her nocturnal habits, and try to tune out her stomping around her apartment.

Chris is with her tonight, having rested during the day. He's there as insurance, should the cops in the car on the street be called away or screw up. He's not an intrusion, and Blythe goes along with business as usual. Sometimes they will talk, and sometimes silence lays like a blanket on the small apartment, where neither is aware of the other's existence.

When Sunday morning comes around, Blythe throws Chris a blanket and then climbs into her own bed, sets her alarm clock, and is asleep in seconds.

At some point on Sunday morning, she awakes to rain beating against the window, and thunder crashing outside. In the other room, she sees Chris's bare feet hanging over the side of the couch, not stirring. His toes are weirdly long, just like his fingers. She rolls over and closes her eyes again.

Her alarm rings at seven in the evening, leaving her two hours before work. She changes into her uniform and pulls her hair back before grabbing something to eat. Its half an hour before she sees Chris start to wake, looking resistant to actually getting out from under his warm blanket. She hands him a cup of coffee once he manages to sit up. He runs a hand though his brown hair, and by some miracle it flattens back down to normalcy.

They eat what could be considered breakfast and dinner in silence, and then Chris wanders off to the bathroom to clean up. By the time he emerges again, she's grabbing her jacket and helmet, ready to head out. She held the door for Chris before following him and locking the door behind her.

"Will I see you in the morning?" She asks.

"I'll be here waiting, assuming the Lieut doesn't have something else planned for me. If not, the guys downstairs aren't going anywhere." He replies.

"Good." She says softly, with a feeling in her gut that she hopes to God isn't a premonition.

He holds a hand out to her, and after a moment of hesitation she links her fingers with his.

"I'll make sure I'm here in the morning." He says, as they drift down the hallway together.


	6. Calamitous

_New York City_

_October 21__st__, 1973_

A cold drizzle is beginning as Blythe rolls her bike into its usual storage spot by her building. She can see her breath as she catches the glimpse of the shiny black car parked on the street, and the two policemen inside. Chris is nowhere to be seen as she unlocks the door and hurries up the steps to her floor.

In her only slightly warmer apartment, she throws down her purse and helmet and has pulled off her coat when she spies the figure lounging on the couch. Her breath stops, and her heart beats in her throat.

The figure is clad completely in black. No exposed skin, as she had noticed the first time she seen him. She senses more than sees his head turn toward her; the apartment is still dark, and his apparel is not good for definitive gestures.

"Are you here to kill me?" She says, her voice choked.

"Probably, yes."

"I don't get to be romanced first? Like all the others?" She asks, as sarcastically as she can manage.

"It would be convenient, for continuity's sake." He sighs. "But we don't live in a perfect world."

"Have you killed all 5 of them?" She asks.

"In New York, yes. I get to know them first, then well, the rest's history."

"Why? Why only nurses?"

He shrugs. It's unnerving.

He flips off the T.V. casually. Blythe hadn't heard it over the sound of her own heartbeats. He strolls toward her, without a care or worry. She does the only thing she can think of—run back toward the door she came through.

She's not far before something hard slams into the back of her head. She feels the blood spread across her scalp, and suddenly she's nose to nose with the floor, and he's standing over her, binding her hands.

She has a blinding headache by the time she succumbs to unconsciousness.

m m m

Chris is lumbering up the stairs to Blythe's floor at 6:45 am. After she had gone to work the night before, he'd headed home to hos own apartment to get some more sleep, and then shower and change clothes. He poked his head in the 1-2-5 around 6:15 to tell them all was well. Annie was the only one there.

He then, finally, seeing the time, hurried back to Blythe.

He knocks on the door, and waits a beat. He hears no footsteps from in the apartment, and then knocks one more time, louder. He can feel a nervous churning in his stomach when he pushes on the door to find it unlocked.

Inside, it is dark and cold. Silence is like a weight on his shoulders as he observes the overturned lamp and fire extinguisher lying on its side on the breakfast table, blood dripping off the corner. His breath catches in his throat, and cold chills radiate down his spine. He sees the through the opening to the bedroom a second door, a back door they hadn't known about. The handle is broken, the door is ajar.

"Oh God." He whispers, and reaches for the phone on the table.

m m m

Ray, Sam and the Lieut are second on the scene after Chris calls, following the two officers that were parked on the street.

The younger man is slipping on leather gloves as the other detectives arrive, and looks thoroughly shaken. Sam pats hims on the shoulder, as comforting as he can muster, in spite of the bleakness of the situation.

They go to work, dusting for fingerprints, collecting a sample of the blood on the fire extinguisher, and inspecting the broken back door.

"The back door leads down a flight of stairs to an outer door, which opens to the dumpsters and a parking area behind the building. Her motorcycle's still here, and both doors show signs of breaking and entering." Ray announces. "I guess she never thought to mention the other door."

"She had faith in us." Chris whispers, the guilt clear on his face.

"We'll find her." Sam says, trying to sound reassuring. "We have a lead now, right?"

"We do," Ray puts in. "No-Nuts is working on trying to find Daniel Hawthorne's new alias and address as we speak."

Chris looks around at the small apartment, with morning light just starting to spill in. Blythe's keys, purse, and jacket are lying on the counter, and he crosses the room to look at it. If she had time to put her things down, that means she was not immediately ambushed on her way in. So there was elapsed time between her coming in and being kidnapped. But not enough time to scream or run. Other officers had taken up a canvas for the neighbors. Most had been asleep, but nothing woke them up. One man was up, but had the TV turned up at the other end of the hallway and heard nothing.

It is several hours later before the detectives headed back to the 1-2-5.


End file.
